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by felixfvlicis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Defense Against the Dark Arts Professors, Felix Felicis, M/M, POV First Person, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-War, Potions Master Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 13:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10537545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felixfvlicis/pseuds/felixfvlicis
Summary: Draco brews Felix Felicis in hopes of occupying Snape’s vacant post at Hogwarts.  OfcoursePotter waltzes in and screws everything up.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [hp_getlucky](http://hp-getlucky.livejournal.com/) 2017 over @ LJ.
> 
> Thanks to [Icicle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icicle/pseuds/Icicle) for the quick & thorough beta. All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Comments / Kudos are ♥

Dusk kisses bare branches and leaves crunch beneath my feet as I stroll to my flat in Cartwright Gardens.  There’s something rather warm about the autumn air; it reminds me of Saturday Quidditch practice and afternoons at Honeydukes, sneaking the chocolates that tasted half as decent as the ones Mother used to send me, but they were better than nothing. I’ve been looking for a place to stay for months, to brush up on my potions skills.  This place is perfect, familiar, much like the halls of Grimmauld Place that Mother agreed to let me wander as a boy, much to Father’s dismay.  Granted, the studio is incredibly modest, but it allows me the freedom to live, to escape the shackles cuffed around my ankles, even after all these years.

I grab a flask from the shelf, holding it carefully between my fingers and turn around to stir the potion once more.  I’m nothing if not precise and having followed Snape’s meticulous instructions, scribbled in the margins of his _Advanced Potions_ book, I’ve managed to brew this potion perfectly.  I place the flask beside the cauldron, running my fingers across the faded pages of parchment.  There’s something about this book that feels oddly foreign, though I’ve used it dozens of times.  I feel quite uneasy, and then I remember: _Potter._  The way he gazed at his feet whenever Slughorn complimented him, though you could feel the smile reaching his eyes through his long, dark lashes.  Of course, the insufferable git had to brew a perfect Draught of Living Death.  Oh, the irony.  It’s likely he got off on it, as well.  No matter.  According to Pansy, who, mind you, is still as nefarious as ever, it remains my sole purpose in life to one-up The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Infuriate-Me.  Though, that’s none of my concern, not really.  I intend on being the most skilled Potions Master Hogwarts has ever seen, and besides, Headmistress McGonagall is the self-proclaimed queen of second chances.  Sodding Gryffindor.

If I can’t manage to have some luck there, of all places, there really is no hope for me.

☘

Unsurprisingly, Hogwarts is exactly as I remember it.  Pre-battle and madman sans soul (and nose), of course.  I walk through the courtyard slowly, immersing myself in the crisp autumn air.  I have the strangest urge to go flying, which is utterly absurd.  I’m hardly fourteen anymore.  Father’s monotonic, venom-laced voice echoes in my mind: _Flying is childsplay, Draco.  You’ll soon learn that power is a greater thrill than anything._ How my mother ever loved him, I’m not quite certain.  If given the chance, he would have taken the Dark Lord’s place.  It still frightens me more than it should.  I reach into the pocket of my black peacoat and pull out the flask.  The grounds are maddeningly quiet, setting me ill at ease.  These days, I find silence suffocating.  My hands shake as I attempt to remove the cork stopper, a direct result of being tortured by the Dark Lord.  I inhale deeply, savoring the sting of earth, decay and molasses against my nostrils, tipping the of clear liquid upward, closing my eyes on instinct.  The potion is warm against the raw skin of my throat, granting me that all too familiar sting that I wish for in the dark, reminding me that I am not a prisoner to my ghosts.  I swallow one last time, stepping up to the wooden doors, pushing my way inside.

☘

No matter how much I try to deny it, the constant chatter of Hogwarts never fails to fill me with a sort of nostalgic warmth.  Leaning against a pillar, I peek into the Great Hall.  Immediately, the scent of crispy bacon, breakfast pudding, and raspberry jam engulfs me.  I want, so badly, to step inside and sit among Wizard-kind.  To belong once more.  My mother’s voice urges me along, but Father has an unrelenting grip on my heart, rooting me to the spot. _The bastard_.  It’s rather unfortunate, fighting with my feelings, because it’s at that exact moment that I choose to look up, to find something to distract myself.  And find something, I do.

_Potter_.  Sitting at the center of the staff table, beside Headmistress McGonagall, no less, with his completely unruly hair, a  crooked tie, and a lopsided smile painted on his lips.  Who, in their right mind, wears ties anymore?  They’re  unsightly and scream I’m-having-a-midlife-crisis.  Despite the chatter surrounding me, I’m almost certain I  hear Potter’s laugh, with that same warm and bashful tone that always made my spine tingle.  Now, though, there’s a depth to it, and it feels almost as dangerous as it sounds.  He’s also decided to go more than a week without shaving, a trail of stubble clinging to his jaw.  I’m so lost in the nostalgia of it all that I don’t even notice my train of thoughts shift from Potter’s rather disagreeable fashion sense to what it would feel like to kiss him, his rough stubble imprinting red slits on my jaw.  I wonder if he tastes sweet, like the raspberry jam I used to love, or if he tastes sharp, like the peppermints I used to stash in my pocket after one-too-many visits to Umbridge’s office.  The only redeemable quality she had, if I’m honest.  Though I did find a strange thrill watching her give Potter a roughing up.

Before I can blink, the Great Hall has nearly emptied, save for the staff and a few students.  I feel a  tight clench in my chest as I look over to find Snape’s seat still unoccupied.  It’s best not to linger on that.  Not that I’ve  much mind to, of course, because it’s  then that Potter passes by, his underwhelming soap-and-water-clean scent enveloping me.  It’s far too plain for my tastes, but it pulls me in nonetheless.  Without thinking, I follow him.          

☘

The thrill that shoots up my spine as I stalk down the hall after Potter fills me with shame.  I thought I was past this.  Merlin knows I ought to be.  The closer I get to him, the tighter my collar becomes.  I tug the fabric, surprised to find it a bit damp.  Bloody hell -- it’s sixth year all over again.  And yet, I can’t seem to get enough.  All at once, my mind is assaulted with the sins of my past.  I swallow heavily, that all-too-familiar buzzing sensation seizing my ears.  My lips are trembling, and the world whizzes past in a blur.

“Watch where you’re walking next time, would you?”

If I became a prisoner of my mind -- which nearly happened during my short stint in Azkaban -- his is the voice that will haunt me, with its unassuming warmth and youthful charm.  If I weren’t so on edge already, I’d allow myself to get lost in the ebb and flow of the words as they tumble from his lips, clinging to the hiss that lingers on the tail of his request.

“Pardon,”  I choke out, cursing myself for such a display of weakness in addition to my unkempt appearance.

“Draco?”

I know I should turn around and leave.

The _let’s-be-civil-around-Potter-instead-of-wanting-to-punch-him-or-rip-his-clothes-off_ scenario has gone about as well for me as my search for employment over the years.  But it seems my feet -- and other parts of me -- have a mind of their own.  I go still, tensing as Potter grips my forearm.  His hands are tattooed with callouses, and his grip is firm, but there’s something … tentative in his touch.  It’s almost as if his brain has a five-second delay, and when he pulls his hand away, I curse myself for thinking it’s much too soon.

“The one and only, Potter,”  I mutter, trying to mask the strain in my voice.  He smells like the earth after a light rain, mixed with a hint of racing broom polish. It’s intoxicating.  I force myself to meet his eyes.  It’s a mistake.  He’s staring at me with a mix of astonishment and fondness.  As if he can’t understand why I’ve returned, despite the fact that he’s secretly wished for it in the darkness of his chambers.  Or maybe I’m projecting.

“What are you …”

Ha.  Potter has never been able to finish his sentences around me.  Bumbling Gryffindor.  Nevermind the fact that I’ll find great pleasure in hushing and roughing him up. _Merlin, Draco.  Focus._

“Right.” _Christ, did I just say that out loud?_  “Um, I mean, I’m here to interview for the Potions Master Position.  With McGonagall.”

A burn settles into my cheeks as I drop my gaze, unabashedly, to Potter’s lips.  He’s smiling, slow and devious as if he knows something I don’t.  His tongue darts out, the tip brushing against his deep pink flesh, and I know I’m done for.

“I see,” he murmurs, pushing his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose.  I always find it incredibly endearing when he does that.  I have to bite back a smile.  Potter can’t know.  I’ll never live it down.  “Well, good luck!  I know you’ll be brilliant.  You always were.”

_Luck._

I have the strangest urge to laugh.  To resurrect _Scarhead_ with as much sneer and vitriol as I can manage and stomp down the hall with my head held high, victorious.  My father’s voice echoes in my head: _this is childsplay, Draco._

Instead, I blush, run my fingers through my hair and whisper a quiet _‘thank you’_ before disappearing around the corner.

McGonagall looks as pointy and unpleasant as I remember her as she gestures for me to sit.  I clasp my hands across my lap to keep my knee from bouncing.  I’m a bloody Malfoy.  Our knees don’t _bounce_.  I can’t be picking up Potter’s mannerisms now too, speccy git.  I bite back a groan as McGonagall opens her mouth to speak.

“I must say, I was quite surprised to learn that you applied for this position, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Please, Headmaster, call me Draco.”

A knock at the door breaks my concentration, though I can’t help craning my neck to see who would be so incredibly tactless as to interrupt ---

Potter.  Of _course_.

He’s opted for a change of clothes that suit him, dare I say, rather well.  I will never be caught dead in a color as ghastly as khaki, but Potter can pull it off.  The navy jumper he’s wearing actually fits.  I’m surprised at how good he looks.  His hair is still completely dreadful, but it appears there’s hope for him yet.  A flutter blooms in my chest.  Ignorance is bliss, as they say.

As Potter retreats, McGonagall resumes her interview process.  I’ve anticipated these questions and rehearsed their answers. However, my mind is preoccupied with thoughts of Potter’s dark hair, and the small bit of stubble growing in around his chin.  I resist the urge to squirm in my chair, trying to reign in the shiver that threatens to descend to my spine.  I can see McGonagall’s mouth moving, her eyes narrowing, but there’s no hope for me.  I can’t keep Potter from my mind.

Half an hour later, McGonagall offers me a tight smile and dismisses me from her office.  My shoulders are wrought with tension as I make my way upstairs.  I have the strangest urge to be alone.

As I sit with my head tipped back against the bricks, legs crossed at the ankles, I feel myself drift off, my breathing mimicking the sound of footsteps making their ascent.

“I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“Yes, well,” I answer, “I needed to get away.”

“That bad, eh?”

I shrug, resigned to the fact that Potter is inescapable.

“It appears the Felix Felicis I brewed was ineffective.”

“You … what?”

Merlin, Potter really is a bumbling idiot.  How he saved us all is beyond me.

“I.  Brewed.  Felix.  Felicis.”

“I heard you, you git.  But how?”

“Snape’s book, of course.  Honestly Potter ...”  I shake my head and attempt a sneer, but it morphs into a slow smile.  I curse myself inwardly.

“Why did you need it?”

“Contrary to your Gryffindorian belief, no one’s jumping at the chance to hire a former Death Eater.  This job would be …” _A second chance_.

Harry’s looking at me with such empathy that I ache to be close to him.  His eyes are the brightest shade of emerald, and they’ve haunted me for longer than I care to admit.  How easy it would be to angle my hips toward him and ---.

Before I can finish the thought, Potter’s lips are on mine.  He’s warm and tastes like a summer breeze drifting above the Quidditch Pitch, sweet and infinite.  Kissing him feels like living another life.

Reluctantly, I pull away, searching Potter’s eyes for some sort of explanation.

“I’ve wanted to do that since you got here.”

“Have you?”  I ask, a blush creeping on my cheeks.

Harry bites his lip, and Merlin if it isn’t the most endearing, seductive thing I’ve ever seen.  The next words tumble freely from my lips.

“That makes two of us,”  I confess, pulling Harry in for another kiss.

☘


End file.
